


Draw Mine Iron Heart

by Elywyngirlie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Basically library porn, Dark Tom, Deathly Hallows, F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Hallows Hunting, Hermione growing into powers, Hermione is a masters student, Magic is Real but not, Modern AU, Tom is rich, Tom is very goal orienteted, academic au, library research, romantic emotional manipulation, swearing and lots of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2020-06-24 08:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19720372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elywyngirlie/pseuds/Elywyngirlie
Summary: Hermione Granger just wants to finish her masters thesis and get on with the next adventure in life.  She's a sensible, practical thing, despite the efforts of her best friend Luna.  But it turns out the world is wider than the sky and deeper than the sea and more than the heaven and earth she dreamt of.Because it turns out that she has magic.And Tom Riddle will do anything to lure her to his side.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THOU hast made me, And shall thy worke decay?  
> Repaire me now, for now mine end doth haste,  
> I runne to death, and death meets me as fast,  
> And all my pleasures are like yesterday;  
> I dare not move my dimme eyes any way,  
> Despaire behind, and death before doth cast  
> Such terrour, and my feeble flesh doth waste  
> By sinne in it, which it t’wards hell doth weigh  
> Onely thou art above, and when towards thee  
> By thy leave I can looke, I rise againe;  
> But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,  
> That not one houre my selfe I can sustaine;  
> Thy Grace may wing me to prevent his art,  
> And thou like Adamant draw mine iron heart
> 
> John Donne, Holy Sonnet 1 
> 
> I'm back. I'm in the trash. This is wildly different than the other piece and closer to my MO. I hope you enjoy it!

Breath couldn’t quite find its way into her lungs past her clawing anxiety, despite her rapid exhalations. She struggled to inhale, clinging to all those yoga classes she took with Luna--“breathing is the most important part of the form”--but it would not come. 

Breath, like courage, had fled her and she trembled, a fluttering butterfly before a scientist, the pin hovering above her core. 

But she still followed him into his office. 

“Please, sit down,” he gestured toward a chair as he paused by his desk. He was going through notes--her notes, panic dug its nails in now--but he didn’t offer her his attention. 

“Wine?” he asked belatedly. “It’s not usual before a gala but--”

“No, I won’t be staying long,” she choked out, each word a victory. She took in his office, so familiar, so warm, so inviting. The couch, that damned couch, against the wall, every divot and button known to her. Its topography mapped along the knobs of her spine and the ridges in her shoulders. 

“Oh? Did you plan for us to arrive early?” The question was cautious and she caught the rattle at the end of it. His nostrils flared and she clenched her fists. 

“I’m not going with you.” There. It was said. The words were out. She straightened out a wrinkle in her skirt, the one that had become suddenly fascinating. 

“Am I boring you, Hermione? Or is there someone else?” 

She tried not to let her gaze flit toward the door. It was so close but it seemed acres away. Her legs tensed and she cursed that she decided to do this in heels. Before the gala. Before he introduced her to his people. The timing had seemed so important this morning. 

“I believe that our relationship is no longer...mutually beneficial.” She swallowed, tongue flicking over dry lips, as she struggled to maintain her composure, to contain the fear that she knew was leaking out in the whites of her eyes. 

“That is certainly an interesting response,” he said quietly, voice devoid of any emotion, almost clinical. An observation. She let him see her tremble now as horror ran its chilled fingertips up her spine. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and when she opened him he was on the other side of his desk, his face strangely calm and flat. 

“Would you say that I was a poor friend to you Hermione?” He was dark, he was lithe, and she knew now, without a doubt, that he was lethal. He took one step toward her, then another, and she was struck with a memory of a lion she had seen in Kenya with her parents. She was in high school, it was summer, and her father had longed for a park visit. The lion had stared at her in their safari jeep and she watched as one man reached for his gun, the guide swatting the hand away. Sweat dripped down her jaw, her upper lip dewy. The lion’s gaze was uninterested and unfathomable--it told her that if there were only you and me, if this metal were gone, I wouldn’t give a bent pin for your survival. 

Tom’s eyes now told her the same. 

He was stalking her, she realized, and any attempt at yoga breathing fled. This had been a bad idea. She shouldn’t have come. She should have done as he told her to do, as she had done for months--no,  _ years  _ now. He would never let her go. 

For one brief moment, in the space between heartbeats, she wondered what kind of death he would offer her. If he would be kind. 

He took another step and she hastily took one back, nearly tripping over her heels. 

She felt ridiculous. He had no experience with mercy. Never had. How could she think...

“I asked you a question,” he purred. She could feel moisture beading on her upper lip and the air conditioner clicked on. It did not stop the roll of sweat trickling down her spine. 

“Did I not help you? Wouldn’t you say that I’ve been generous?” 

She nodded blindly and her knees hit the back of the couch. She sank quickly her hand out and he grasped it, jerking her up. Her gaze met his neck, the ostentatious tie, the breadth of his shoulders, the tight line of his jew. 

His teeth as his mouth opened again. 

“Can you tell me that you did not  _ benefit  _ from our relationship?” he hissed the word and she shivered. His hands fell on her upper arms and she could feel his strain in the light hold. She inhaled shakily and his scent, so familiar, overwhelmed her. He smelled like autumn--stewed apples, cinnamon, overturned leaves on the forest floor. Revealing the rot beneath. 

“It’s not that I’m not grateful for everything because I am, you know that I am. But...but I feel that our...association...has reached its natural conclusion.” Every word was a rush and his hands tightened on her arms. She bit back the wince, teeth digging into her bottom lip. Her lips were painted a wine red and it stained her teeth. She watched his gaze track her tongue running over the smudge.

They were hungry. They were a lion on a path in Kenya. His lip curled and she wondered if even he would find satisfaction with her death. 

“I find that I have arrived at quite a different conclusion,” Tom replied coldly. His face was flat, his black curls perfectly coiffed, the rose a bright splash against his dark suit. But she knew him. She saw the lines tightening around his lips, his pupils darkening, his jaw tensing. 

She wanted to swallow, she wanted to throw herself at his feet, and beg. 

She knew she wasn’t getting out of the room alive. 

The knife snicked as it slid open and he held it to her neck. 

“I told you Hermione--you belong to me.” 

The blade flashed and crimson slid along porcelain white. 

* * *

_ Two Years Earlier _

Hermione tried to swallow her sigh and offered the librarian a patient smile. Its edges were razor sharp and the librarian stiffened. Hermione couldn't stop the swear words and the librarian looked at her over thin frames. So close to finalizing her thesis and this was this woman was all that stood between her and her master’s degree. So fucking close. 

“I am sorry Miss Granger but there is a hold on this book. It simply must be returned.” Miss Pince sniffed and turned back to her computer. “Now if there is nothing else, I must return to fulfilling interlibrary loan requests for other students. You’re not the only one trying to graduate.” The sneer smeared the air with disdain, Pince’s lip curling, and Hermione tried not to snarl. 

“Of course. I’ll bring it back tonight,” she murmured, rising to her feet. Pince gave what she was sure was a winsome smile but it remained Hermione painfully of mummies in the museum--dry, brittle, dead. 

But what Pince didn’t know was that Hermione had the book in her bag. It was always with her. It was time to play a submissive, exhausted graduate student to buy herself some time. She gave another tight smile and turned to leave. She bumped into the man behind her, also waiting for Pince, and hastily muttered an apology, eyes downcast. She flew upstairs to the scanner and impatiently waited for the computer next to it to open up. Using the app on her phone would take too much time and potentially render unusable images. 

_ Tales of Beedle the Bard _ was in high demand as symbolic medieval literature, rich and provocative with its artwork. Unlike other medieval manuscripts, interested in parables and God and daily life, this one was steeped in magic. It’s entire premise was that magic was real. It functioned almost like a pre-Grimm fairy tale and Hermione knew she would have trouble accessing the famed Grindelwald manuscript when she first wrote the precis for her thesis. 

Dumbledore had given her amused look over his glasses, reminded her of how much literature there was for her review, and then sent her on her way. His translation was often considered superior to Grindelwald’s and the older, Austrian version had fallen mostly out of favor except with histo rians. There were few copies now, many discarded, probably languishing in rubbish sales or old bookstores. 

But Grindelwald’s translation, in her mind, gave life to the stories. Where Dumbledore’s translation was simple and clean lines, Grindelwald’s was wild and romantic. It breathed magic with its chaotic suppositions. She was drawn into the world he created where Death gambled and lost, where women found the magic within and rose above their circumstances, where the night was alive and dreams mingled with the stars. 

Scanning a manuscript was dangerous. It could damage the original material. But Hermione needed Grindelwald’s edition. This version contained footnotes showing where Grindelwald had altered his translation several times from the Celtic language. It also contained many lists of references that Gellert had used. It was too vital for her to lose. Hermione could barely restrain her irritation as Dumbledore scoffed at one of the suggestions that the Hallows were real, that Grindelwald had found archival material that suggested an Elder wand existed. 

She discovered one morning while restacking coffee cups that she was restraining herself quite often lately. Luna would probably tell her to realign her chakras and get some sleep. 

Luna would not be wrong. 

Finally the first years copying their textbooks left in a swarm of giggles and Hermione slid into the warmed chair. She quickly typed in her password and the flatbed scanner whirred in greeting. She opened the book up to the tale she wanted and laid it on the bed. The scanner murmured, she tapped a few icons, and the scanner clicked in reply. Its bright light flared and Hermione smiled to herself. She was keeping those Grindelwald translations. 

The scanner began its trundle up the bed when the library’s lights flickered, the room dimming. A large groan shook the bones of the building followed by loud protests from students. Hermione let out a little shriek before the lights flickered on once, twice, then remained on, brightness holding the darkness at bay (of your failed thesis, her conscience pricked, and Hermione shoved it back). 

But the scanner did not turn back on. Hermione froze before she remembered to flick the power button on the computer. Even as the computer hummed back to life, the scanner remained silent. She slid to the floor, hunting for the power strip. It was on. The light burned red. She groaned. 

“Fucking power surge,” she muttered. 

“Perhaps I can be of assistance?” came a dark low voice behind her. Hermione brightened. The library did have IT around, especially close to midterms. 

“Are you from IT, I need…” her voice died as she twisted around. He was certainly not from IT, or at least none of the techs she had worked with previously. He was tall and lean, with dark waves parted neatly to one side. His trousers were pressed, his shirt crisp, his tie thin and lethal. His smile was all politeness and she gave one back. 

She had not met a professor as young as him, especially one dressed as if stepping from GQ magazine, and her mind raced. 

“I’m so sorry professor?” her voice trailed off and she ducked her head. 

“I’m not actually a professor here. But I do have experience with stubborn things.” His voice was smooth, even, and coaxed her shoulders down from their tense position. He should read audio books, she blinked, lecherous thoughts rising at the roll of his vowels. 

Hermione shook her head and quickly explained the situation. The man gestured for her to leave her seat and she jumped up, standing beside him as he studied the scanner. His long fingers were graceful, moving over the keyboard as he resurrected the machine. He ran them over the scanner, checking the connections. He pulled up command boxes, his gaze never wavering. He was terribly handsome and she was embarrassed to be so flushed. She wondered who he was. A benefactor perhaps? Or maybe someone in administration. That made sense, she thought, and she considered the matter closed. 

After a few moments, the scanner cough back to life and she didn’t stop the squeal of excitement, relief thrumming in her veins. 

“Thank you so much!” she gushed. “You’re an absolute genius.”

“You’re too kind. I’m just patient and with a lot of experience,” was his demure reply and she almost didn’t hear it as the first page of the manuscript appeared on the monitor. The scanner was working. Her thesis was saved. 

“Thank you again, I can’t tell you how much I deeply appreciate your assistance,” she said, offering her hand. 

“My pleasure,” he replied, taking it. His hand was warm and surprisingly calloused and she filed that away for later. She had work to do. “My name’s Tom Riddle, by the way.”

“Hermione Granger. Master’s candidate.” The answer was automatic. 

“Well Miss Granger, I wish you luck in your studies.” He was all grace as he rose up from the seat. Hermione was busy positioning the book for the next scan and nodded absently, tucking back a wayward curl. 

“And by the way Miss Granger--if you’re interested, I happen to own Grindelwald’s original text.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out more about Hermione

“And then he dropped that line and just left!” Her outrage was fierce and burning her veins in a frenzy that hadn’t stopped since Tom Riddle pressed his card into her hand and strolled away. Luna turned her wide grey eyes toward her. 

“Just like that? With no contact information? That’s strange…” She rarely seemed to end her sentences definitively. They hung in the air as if waiting for something to connect to them and revive their relevance again. 

Perhaps a chakra needed realigning, Hermione thought uncharitably and then chastised herself. Luna was a dear friend. 

“Oh well no, he gave me his card,” Hermione explained as she came down the steps with the sleeves of coffee cups in hand. It was evening of the same day and she was working the closing shift with Luna at Black Cat Coffee. The coffee shop was located on the edges of the Hogsmeade, near their prestigious university of Hogwarts. She had started working there her second year of university and had stayed on through. Fred Weasley, the co owner with his twin, was laid back and relatively lax with scheduling which made it ideal for her. He owned several businesses but could often be seen lurking in the corner, muttering on the phone with his accountant, and requesting his sixth or seventh refill. 

“Are you going to call him?” Luna murmured. Hermioned opened her mouth to answer just as the grinder kicked in and the loud burr of it filled the small shop. She sighed and began to refill the cups up front. They spent the next half hour working on closing tasks, pausing only to make a few lattes for students looking to stay up late. 

Hermione had scanned the text and had returned the book to Pince, earning another painfully stretched smile in response. Meanwhile, Riddle’s card burned in her pocket. She had spent the time sitting in traffic lights googling the man but didn’t have a real sense of who he was. 

Thomas M. Riddle, Esq, Antiques. In bold swirling letters on thick creamy stock. 

Ok, so that told her nothing. Google had returned a website for a gallery that was all Danish modern lines--sleek and light, with wide open spaces. Modern art, collectibles, rare books--the perfect object for the discerning eye, it promised. She wondered why he was at the university. Perhaps there was something in the museum that interested in him? Or he was, in fact, a benefactor of some sort. If he were in antiques or rare books, he might have a relationship with the archives, she had mused before she was jerked out of her reverie by the car honking behind her. 

Still, it was a bit odd. But she didn’t want to question her luck. A chance to see Grindelwald’s personal text! She wondered what notes he had scribbled in the margins. 

“Do you think...I should call him?” Despite herself, the question was hesitant, almost broken and Hermione winced. Luna seized the uncertainty and turned around, leveling her assessing gaze. Hermione tried not to squirm as she was sure Luna was reading her aura or something. 

“Do you want a friend to go with you?” 

Hermione gave a weak smile. Darling Luna; perhaps the aura reading wasn’t completely inane. She always seemed to know what Hermione wanted and in that, in her friendships, Luna was always assertive. 

Hermione quickly assured her that she would prefer company and Luna texted her the schedule for the rest of the week before locking up the shop’s front doors. Hermione poured herself a cup of coffee from the last pot before washing it out and leaving it to dry for tomorrow’s open. She checked on the batter for the morning and scribbled herself a reminder that she needed to prep more scone and muffin batter. And with that, she and Luna left, locking the back door and setting the alarm, and headed to their shared apartment. 

It was at the top of a renovated warehouse. Luna had found it after their first year in a dorm in Hogwarts. But space was limited and there wasn’t guaranteed space for second years and up. After five years, they had made it a home. Hermione’s room had one wall of slanted glass and roof access. The grimy windows--despite numerous powerwashes--gave the room a grey tone even during summer. But it was always light and she had tossed around jewel toned rugs and linens to combat the dullness that would creep in during winter. 

Luna had a sprawling closet and wide windows. They had a small living room that fed right into the kitchen. Grey bricks supported groaning two by fours, overloaded with books. Plants clustered along the windowsills. Hermione tossed a bag of scones for Luna into Luna’s room. She figured the girl would offer crumbs to ducks or birds tomorrow. And then she settled into her room for a long night of reading, writing, and an hour or so of researching Tom Riddle. 

Her alarm beeped at 4:30 and she cried, burying her head under some pillows. The beeping grew louder and the song she had cued up--an annoying dubstep--began to play. Cursing her lot in life, as usual, Hermione got up and hurriedly dressed, climbing into her old Toyota to head down to the coffee shop.

It was still dark and thunder munched overhead she hurried inside, flipping on the switches. The opening tasks--starting coffees, setting up the board--were quickly done. Once she had her coffee in front of her and her apron on, did she smile. And her favorite part of any day began--the baking. 

The soothing feel of dough clinging to her fingers. The smell of yeast and sugar and cinnamon. The familiarity of moving through the kitchen on autopilot, her hip bumping the deli fridge as always. The gentle strains of Goldberg Variations as she baked her walnut apricot scones. Her hope as she mixed the batter that whoever ate these would have a day as lovely as her morning, that they could experience the simple joy of what the first bite of warmed muffin could bring.

But as soon as she found her center, it was over. Cormac, her coworker, rushed in and opened the coffee shop, the steady stream of customers filling the shop with their chatter. He switched the radio to some weird alt rock that she was only vaguely aware of as she carried in trays of fresh scones, muffins, donuts, and cinnamon rolls. 

“Oh good, she finally brought those out,” snarled Argus, the village’s head of maintenance. Hermione bit back her scathing retort as she plated one for him. She watched him scowl as he handed money to Cormac and shoved the scone in his mouth. He blinked. He smiled and he took a nibble of the scone. 

“Uh here’s your change?” Cormac said, offering up the dollar. Argus shrugged.

“Keep it, my lad. You’re doing wonderful work.” 

Cormac exchanged a wide eyed look with Hermione, who shrugged. She didn’t know what had caused that. Her baking was good but not that good. 

“Maybe he’s constantly hangry,” she offered and Cormac laughed as he went to make a triple half caf almond milk latte. The morning passed quickly in a flurry of orders and baking. Hermione spent much of the time in the kitchen, preparing batters for the next couple of days and taking inventory. Fred darted in, clearly haranguing someone on the phone, his brow knotted. Hermione passed him a scone and coffee and watched as his brow relaxed after one bite, his stress easing. 

Nothing like a freshly baked good, she thought to herself with a satisfied nod. 

Hermione was just clocking out as Luna made her appearance. Her roommate was dressed in a flowy blue tunic with bronze leggings. Rain had begun to lash at the windows and Hermione shrugged on her favorite red sweater. 

“Are you ready?” Luna asked, while ordering Cormac to make her an oatmilk macchiato. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Are you why Hermione has been a nervous wreck all day?” Cormac asked as he handed Hermione a mug of coffee and began to prepare Luna’s drink. 

“Tom Riddle has offered a text to Hermione for her thesis and well, it was odd?”

Cormac frowned at Luna. 

“Tom Riddle? The Tom Riddle?”

Hermione pounced: “You know who he is?”

“Of course. My girlfriend is in library science and she is interested in archival work. He’s always in archives at the university. Donating books, shit like that. He’s incredibly wealthy,” he explained. “He’s also rude to students. Katie said that when she asked about getting a copy of the first edition of Hogwarts A History he snarled at her and told her never to contact him again.”

Hermione pursed her lips. That didn’t sound at all like the polite man she had met yesterday. What could be the cause of it? Then again, Cormac was rather abrasive at times as was his girlfriend. Perhaps the way she asked, Hermione thought, as she ran her thumb over the card. 

“Are you suggesting we don’t call him then?” Luna prompted and Cormac shrugged. 

“I only know what Katie told me.” With that, he turned his attention to the group that came in, clamoring for drinks, and Hermione led Luna to the dumpy sofa in the backroom. She pulled out the card and studied it, all the while feeling Luna’s eyes on her. 

Sometimes, the best thing about Luna, was that she didn’t ask. Instead, she wound her arm through Hermione’s and Hermione smiled at the contact. It was reassuring. 

“Well, if he yells at me, at least I still have the scan,” she muttered as she dialed the number. 

“Tom Riddle,” was the gruff greeting. 

“Uh, hi, Mr. Riddle? This is Hermione Granger? We met yesterday at the library,” Hermione began, her voice wavering. 

“Miss Granger,” he purred through the phone and she sat up straighter, her brows raising at Luna who was frowning at the phone. 

“I was wondering if you would call me.”

“Oh well, here I am,” she joked lamely and Riddle chucked, a rich rolling sound that she swore ran like velvet down her spine. How could he make her feel his voice through a phone? She bit her lip and Luna gave an encouraging nod. 

“Wonderful. Are you free to join me for tea today?” 

At Luna’s nod, Hermione stammered: “Of...of course, I am.”

“Excellent,” he said. “But you must come alone. I don’t open my archives for anyone and I suspect, Miss Granger, that you are going to be the exception to every rule.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to have Luna order an oatmilk cappuccino until I did some research on it (former barista and coffee taster here) and apparently oatmilk doesn't bond well for generating the foam needed for a cappuccino. A capp is not a sweet drink. It's actually dry. It's espresso, a tad bit of milk, and a ton of foam. 
> 
> In this AU, Hermione is a mad coffee drinker.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione visits Tom Riddle.

To declare that Tom Riddle’s house was massive was an understatement. House wasn’t even the right word, Hermione thought. Estate. Manse. Castle. 

To get there, Hermione, with Luna safely ensconced in the passenger seat to dash in, if necessary, had driven along the B6341 before departing sharply onto a shaded road. She trundled on a well used gravel road alongside a bricked wall for over a mile to get to the private entrance. A large black wrought iron gate with a large scaled S crest, almost overbearing and ostentatious (An S? Hermione was too awed to wonder why). And then another two miles along an oak lined drive until she arrived at a curved driveway. 

A drive long enough for Luna to exclaim over the horses scamping in the field. Over the gleam of a greenhouse at the crest of a hill where Luna was sure rare plants would be grown. And over the lush gardens that they spied as they took the final turn to view the grand house. 

It was a sprawling Tudor affair--brick and colossal with two wings and a tower. Older and modern styles were cobbled with the main house to form an unwieldy building. She watched landscapers clipping the hedges and noted more buildings to the south. Gently rolling hills contrasted with the darkening skies as the clouds grew thicker. 

She wondered if the book was enough to bring her to this fairy tale castle where sensible girls like her did not belong. For a moment, she thought that if she entered that she would never come out again. 

“So he’s rich,” Luna commented dryly. She slouched in her seat and Hermione wondered if she felt as watched as she did. And not just by the security cameras jutting along the castle walls. 

“This is beyond rich,” Hermione added, giving a shake of her head. “Do you think he’s titled or something?”

“There’s nothing that I saw that indicated the people visit here and don’t most of them let people visit their homes?” Luna asked. They looked at each other and shrugged. The nobles were only as interesting as the soaps and Hello magazine painted them to be. Other than that, Hermione didn’t follow and if Luna did, she never remarked on it. Hermione sighed and shook her head, snorting when her hair tie broke and her curls tumbled down around her shoulders. 

Luna offered a crooked smile: “You know they can never be tamed? They are just like you?” 

Hermione gave a wry laugh. “That was too on the nose, Luna. Try harder next time.”

Luna turned her serious grey eyes to her, her lips turning down. 

“Be careful. There’s more to heaven and earth than what is in your philosophy.”

“I should be careful merely because I don’t think this is the type of place that university girls go to collect books.” With that pointed remark, Hermione checked that Luna’s phone was charged and slipped out of the car. Thunder rolled overhead, a thick wet sound, that promised another deluge. She ran into the house and was admitted by a butler. 

A stooped man with a large nose and a rather unpleasant glare greeted her when she stepped in. Truthfully this was not something she had prepared for and she couldn’t stop her mouth from dropping. She thought butlers only existed in novels before her sensible side reminded her that the rich couldn’t truly be bothered by estate management. 

“I am sorry but Mr. Riddle is taking appointments only,” he said coldly and Hermione dug her nails into her palms as her fists curled. 

“I have an appointment. Hermione Granger,” she replied, hoping she put as much sophistication into her voice as she could muster. She desperately wished that she had changed out of her jeans. At least her flour splattered shirt had been switched for a petal pink eyelet blouse and her sneakers exchanged for knee high brown boots.

The butler’s manner changed immediately. He offered a cordial smile. 

“Of course. Mr. Riddle is waiting for you in the library. Miss Twinky will escort you.” A diminutive woman appeared, her steel grey hair in an intimidating bun, and she gestured for Hermione to follow. Hermione could barely keep up as she tried to inhale all of the architecture and art in the building. Seventeenth century tapestries and nineteenth century romantic pieces melded with swooping baroque ceilings. The house felt chilly, a sense of industry, but a lack of people, she thought, as they arrived at a set of dark double doors. Miss Twinky knocked twice before poking her head in. After a murmur of voices, she opened it up and Hermione slowly entered the room of her dreams. 

Two stories the length of a football pitch with books crammed into every inch. Piles of books on trolleys scattered throughout the room. Window seats were lined with inviting cushions at regular intervals. There was an effort to create a reading area by the large fireplace. But books languished on the tables and couch and the chairs and all Hermione could wonder was how long it would take to read them all. 

“I’d imagine several lifetimes as that’s how long it took to gather this collection,” came an amused voice from her left. Hermione whirled to see Tom Riddle sitting at a desk, a slim laptop in front of him. She blinked several times before ducking her head. 

“You were wondering how long it would take to read all of them,” he added and she nodded, marveling at how easily he read her face. This was probably how she lost poker all the time. 

“Don’t worry--you’re not the first to ask,” he said as he rose and approached her. “I asked the same question the first time I saw it.” 

“And I imagine you’ve added to it since,” she murmured and he gave a rich, rolling laugh. He was intimidating in here, she realized, as he towered over her. He wasn’t really that much taller than her, she told herself, but in here, surrounded by his wealth, an aura of power draped around him, she felt her insignificance. She wondered why he had bothered to help her with her little scanning issue and put the question bluntly. He merely raised a brow and she felt a blush creeping along her nose. 

“I apologize for my rudeness,” she added and then winced. S _ ometimes Hermione, you need to shut your mouth _ , she scolded herself as she gripped her bookbag and tried to look anywhere than his face. She wasn’t prepared for this type of conversation. How did one get a patron? She hated herself for skipping that grant writing seminar for a movie night with Luna. 

“I asked Twinky to bring up some tea,” Riddle was saying. He grasped Hermione’s elbow and steered her toward the seating area by the fireplace. He scooped up the books and dumped them on the couch and pushed her gently into a plush wingback chair. Hermione’s eyebrow twitched in irritation but a part of her was grateful that he was going to ignore her blurted question and take charge of this strange situation. 

Twinky rolled in a tea service and was out the door before Hermione comprehended that Riddle was stoking up the fire. Her gaze was fastened on a book on the couch, 

“Is that a first edition Moby Dick?” she asked blankly. Riddle looked up and cocked his head before bestowing her a smile that she could only call dazzling. He was dressed slightly more casually today, a cashmere sweater over a pressed white dress shirt and charcoal trousers. An entirely different spectrum of casual from herself. A rebellious curl hung in front of his forehead, rendering him charming and harmless. 

“I was looking for that. Thanks,” he said before picking up the book and setting it on top of another pile. Hermione shook her head. Riddle gave her an expectant look as he took a seat across from her. 

“Milk? Sugar?” 

“Oh, ummm, lemon,” Hermione replied weakly, placing her bag on the floor as she took the cup with shaking hands. As she scooped out the slice, she ordered herself to get under control. She’s done this before. She confronted the dean over poor wages for kitchen workers. Hermione took a deep breath and blew it out as she took a sip of tea, pleasantly surprised by the delicate black darjeeling. 

There. Fear managed. 

Riddle, she noticed, took milk and two sugars--quite overpowering the light tea. He also loaded a plate with sandwiches. Outside there was a loud crack and rain began to lash at the windows. She glanced nervously at the trees waving in the wind and worried about Luna.

“I had your friend escorted into the kitchens,” Tom added casually. “My butler informed there was another person and I wasn’t sure how bad the storm was going to get.”

“Yes it is unusually strong for spring,” Hermione added thoughtfully. She wondered if she should take a bite of any of the lavish food before her or if they were all just pomegranate seeds. The wind rattled the window and she tried not to jump. 

“I’m not usually this jittery,” she said. “And thank you for taking care of Luna.”

“My pleasure. The cook always makes too much for tea for one, or even two people, so I hope your friend is enjoying some of the biscuits and cakes.” 

It was the strained conversation, stilted, from the Austen novels with which Hermione was intimately familiar. She idly thought the doors would fling open and someone would accuse her of polluting the shades of such a grand estate. She wondered how an antiques dealer had such a large home. And then she shrugged and reminded herself why she was here. 

“Mr. Riddle, not that I don’t think your hospitality isn’t lovely, because it is, but I am here about the Tales of Beetle the Bard.” 

Riddle paused, finished chewing his watercress sandwich, and patted his lips with linen before delicately placing his plate on the table. He took an almost apologetic swallow of tea and Hermione tried not to fidget. She knew she was being rude. But she couldn’t fight the odd feeling clinging to her shoulders, the hair raising on the back of her neck. 

She consoled herself that it was her mother’s advice not to be alone in rooms with strange men. 

And Riddle was the very definition of strange. 

“Of course, Ms. Granger. This must all seem unusual to you. I don’t take many guests here. Mostly I meet people at my estate in town.”

“....this isn’t your only home?” She couldn’t keep the surprise from spilling out. Or was it horror? 

Riddle cracked a smile, his beautiful eyes crinkling in the corners. 

“Yes, it is a bit excessive. I’m actually in talks to open this up for tours you see as it is on the Historical Register. It belonged to an ancestor of mine, Salazar Slytherin. Have you heard of him?” Hermione shook her head and Riddle gave a wan smile. “I suppose not. He’s a rather obscure figure in a very niche part of 16th century history. A true oddity. He advised both Henry the Eighth and Elizabeth the First. And he received this earldom as a gift for service. And we’ve added it to it since.” 

“Indeed,” Hermione murmured, slightly out of her depth. She didn’t think her dentist parents ever mingled with a descendant of an adviser to a king. At least a known one. Like most middle class people, she barely thought about the royals except at tax time and visits with her grandma whose photo of the queen was always spotless. (To be fair to grandma, she was also a driver in the war and apparently that made bonds, you know, as she often reminded her grandchildren). 

Riddle stood up and headed toward a particular shelf. She followed him, devouring the titles on the shelves. They were truly fascinating. He had an extant copy of Newton’s _Principia_ and one of the first Bibles printed and a truly gorgeous illuminated manuscript. There were a collection of loose leafs dating back to American independence and a hastily signed copy of Wittgenstein’s _Tractatus_. Several first editions of _Frankenstein_ sat next to Mary Wollenstencraft’s personal journals. 

She tried not to faint at the staggering history in the room. 

Riddle pulled down a box and Hermione followed him back to his desk. He whisked out a pair of white cotton gloves. 

“Now Ms. Granger. If I let you use this, you must always follow correct archival processes. It’s in a delicate state. He had it on him when he was gassed. The chemicals damaged some of the pages.”

Hermione hastily agreed and watched greedily as he unsnapped the box. He hit a few buttons on his iPad and the lights dimmed. He threw back the lid and lifted out the greyshell preservation box before lifting off the lid. She ached to brush back the tissue paper and bit her lip as he did. 

In faded, cracked leather was Grindelwald’s copy of Tales of Beetle the Bard. There were two copies she noticed--one in German and one in English. The German one was an older printing with leather binding. The English one was from the 20s or 30s, Hermione thought, judging by the clothboard booked. Riddle laid them on a flat black mat and handed Hermione a pair of gloves. 

Inside both copies were notes. Copious notes. She longed for her German dictionary to help with some of the older phrases. Yes, she was technically fluent but the Bard was an older work and some of the German had fallen out of use. The English book was also covered in Grindelwald’s fine print. And tucked in the back was a folded piece of paper. 

Hermione looked up at Riddle who nodded encouragingly. Carefully, with trembling fingers, she unfolded an old map of Europe. There were notes and flags and lines drawn between England and Prussia. There was a star next to Athens and a hastily scrawled note about Herpo the Foul. 

And finally, next to a key, were the words: Wahre Lage der Heiligtümer des Todes

True Location of the Deathly Hallows 

Hermione rocked back on her heels. She knew Grindelwald believed that the Three Brothers was actually an allegory about a historical event and that the deathly hallows themselves were a fantastic rendition of some sort of war tool. Over time, the story must have evolved and the hallows grew more powerful with each retelling. The earliest version of the Tales, back to the seventeenth century, showed the story remaining remarkably extant though and she eyed Riddle at the thought. 

He grinned. 

“Amazing isn’t it?” 

“How did you know my research project?” She had withheld the question for hours now. She wanted to know. Riddle smiled broadly. She couldn’t help the thought that he savoured her bluntness and curiosity. 

“I am quite close with Inez Pince, the librarian. She has been hoping to get ahold of some of my unpublished Ezra Pound poems for an exhibit. I’ve been resistant. To entice me, she often mentions some of the more exotic projects students are doing--as a way to get to my archive, as it were. If I open it for them….” Hermione nodded impatiently, catching his drift. “She told me you were a puzzle. From her understanding, you were a fairly conventional student. Your take on the tales was different.” 

Hermione bristled at the description of her as conventional. She was already published. True it was a joint publication with a professor, but still. And she had an offer for a teaching assistant position, should things go well. 

“It’s not different. Dumbledore himself wrote on the historical significance of the Tales,” she snapped. 

Riddle appeared to stiffen at her adviser's name. She wondered if there was some bad blood there. Academics could carry a grudge. And with this type of collection, Riddle would be the holy grail for academics everywhere. Even she longed to pour over some of the other books far outside her purview. 

“Yes but he wrote about how the story affected modern retellings of fairy tales. You are treating Grindelwald’s interpretation as valid. Most people brush it off as a symptom of mustard gas.” 

Hermione hemmed at that. It was true that Grindelwald’s later writings were labeled as ravings. But this map was truly intriguing. She recognized some of the historical significance of the places he had marked up. And he had printed a neat genealogy of the Peverell brothers to advisers of kings and queens. He had even suggested that the invisibility cloak had been used by Walsingham! 

That would explain how astute he was, Hermione mused, grasping at her memories of Elizabeth I’s reign. . 

“Do you happen to have an earlier version of Tales?”

“How early?” Riddle prompted. 

“Earlier than the seventeenth century.” 

Riddle mock bowed and left to scour his shelves. Hermione took out her notebook and began to take careful notes of Grindelwald’s markings. She took a photo of the map itself and sighed at the dim image. But the flash might damage the paper and she went back to copying his genealogy. 

Riddle brought back an armload of books. Hermione gasped. There was a copy as far back as the fourteenth century. She hastily opened it up, her jaw dropping. 

The opening sentences were nearly the same. 

She ran her tongue over her teeth. Could the stories be true? Could there have been some sort of historical event? She flipped through the pages and frowned at the drawings. Someone had drawn the hallows. 

And that drawing of the Elder Wand looked frightening similar to the item in a glass case in Dumbledore’s private library. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to PoorQueequeg for helping me with the Britishness of this. I'm sure I got some thing right (I changed it to pitch! And pants to trousers!) but I'm sure some other slipped through. She also pointed out that the amount of sugar that Tom took in his tea was a bit excessive and Hermione should note that having a title and lands is no guarantee of class. 
> 
> I did muck about with Slytherin's timeline and moved him forward a couple centuries. Are there a lot of Norman castles still standing? Google says they are. Sounds quite drafty to me. Tom Riddle's estate is modeled on Penshurst Place in Kent although in this case its been moved north. 
> 
> The German is from Google Translate but the Deathly Hallows corresponded to the German edition of the book according to Scholastic's website (Heiligtümer des Todes). 
> 
> Also I'm trying to image a circumstance in which Wittgenstein would autograph one of his works and decided someone must have threatened him. Cut off his funding to Norway or something for that to happen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom steps up his seduction game and nets himself a Hermione

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I don't love the first half of this chapter but I didn't know how to get to the second half without going through the first. Thank you for your patience. And I promise Tom's POV is already written for the next chapter! Also probably smut the next chapter.

Hermione found herself easing into a new rhythm over the next week. Between university and work, she would head to Tom Riddle’s home in town to study the works. He was extremely accommodating. Staff would let her in if he wasn’t available and she would slide into what she had come to call her chair in his library. She would work assiduously, poring over Grindelwald’s text, German dictionary in hand. Her first draft was due in a few weeks, her hair was springing from her head as if it were fleeing, and her eyes began carrying bags so large that Luna asked if they carried Hermione’s books for her. 

Hermione did not find that amusing. 

She enjoyed the solace and the quiet of Tom’s home. Fingers flew over her keyboard and slowly her thesis began to come together. She could prove that the Deathly Hallows were real. She would rub her exhausted eyes, take a sip of tea, and press on. 

Then she would find herself nodding off and a warm hand on her shoulder. Tom would offer to drive her home and she found herself in his car on more than one occasion. His presence became soothing. 

After a week of this, her frazzled hair constantly stuck in a bun, pens flying out of her backpack, her coats, her shoes, she stumbled her way into work to mix batter for chocolate chip oat scones. Hermione slammed back the quad shot of espresso but it wasn’t enough to shake the lethargy clinging to her, sleep’s tentacles woven through her very skin. 

A customer snapped at her for her slowness. Hermione burned at the thought of the indignant woman and wished everyone could feel her exhaustion right in their bones. She glared at the woman as she left, cursing her under her breath. 

The woman stumbled outside and reached out blindly. Someone grabbed her as the woman collapsed, exhausted. 

Hermione didn’t notice. 

She thought of the woman as she added the chocolate chips to the batter and flipped on the mixer. Her back ached from bending over. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for hours. 

She had become distracted by Dumbledore’s wand and had let herself wander down a tangent. She didn’t have time for this, she told herself, as she combed the books Riddle had carted over for her. But she had pushed it aside time and time again and worked until four am. And sleep claimed her now as she slumped over the mixer, eyes drawing shut, a snore escaping. 

“Hermione!” Luna called, rushing in to shut off the mixer. Hermione jolted awake. 

“What? What’s on fire?”

“You need a nap,” Luna ordered. Hermione felt her critical gaze and balked. 

“I’m nearly done with my draft,” she bartered and Luna shook her head. 

“No. Go home. Take a nap. I’ll bake these. Stop worrying.” It was times like these that Luna became assertive, the wispiness of her voice melding into hardened steel. Hermione glared at her and Luna pointed toward the door. 

“You can’t write if you can barely stay awake. You’ll end up rewriting most of it anyways, won’t you?” Luna reasoned and Hermione sighed, collapsing against the prep table. She muttered under her breath as she stripped off her apron and shrugged on her sweatshirt. Taking a rooibos tea to go, Hermione began the drive home before the nagging thought about the Elder Wand took root in her mind again. She thought she had discovered a book in Riddle’s library…

Making a quick decision, Hermione jerked her wheel to the right and headed toward Riddle’s townhouse. While not as grand as his massive estate, it still shone and reeked of opulence. It also housed his office and the butler coldly informed her that Riddle was meeting clients as he led her to the library. Promising to be quiet, Hermione settled herself into Riddle’s desk and began flipping through the pages of the small black book that she found. 

A History of Wand Making by Garrett Ollivander 

It was fantasy, to be sure, Hermione thought, as Ollivander carefully detailed how hairs from different magic--imaginary, Hermione insisted--animals would create different powers. The Elder Wand, he wrote, was not made by Death, as the tale had said, but Antioch Peverell himself. Excitement surged through Hermione--this proved her thesis! The tales were based on history! She scribbled in her notebook, minutes ticking by, and her brief rush of adrenaline slowed to a trickle. Her eyes burned, hard and scratchy, and Hermione mumbled to herself about just needing a minute, just one minute…

She woke to a firm hand on her shoulder. 

“Hermione, I think you’d be more comfortable on the couch,” a low cool voice whispered along the shell of her ear. She muttered something and buried her head deeper into her arms. An amused laugh skated along her spine and she felt herself being lifted, adjusted, before placed onto a soft and welcoming cushion. Her arms were tucked under something light and she felt a hand brush across her forehead. 

Hermione woke up several hours later to rosy light filling the room. She blinked blearily a few times, rubbing the gritty sand out of her eyes. She was covered in a cashmere blanket, unbelievably luxurious and cozy, and on the couch by the far wall. The couch, she realized, in Tom Riddle’s library. How had she….

A faint memory of being lifted, an arrangement of hands and clothing, a caress, lingering, and she felt her stomach clench. Something strange, unfamiliar, coursed through her veins, a giddiness that she had not experienced before. She swallowed hard, scolding herself for her schoolgirl crush. Yes, he was solicitous. Yes, he was kind and obviously caring judging by the way he had arranged her on the sofa. A part of her, meek and quiet, pointed out how odd it was that he touched her while she was asleep and the warmth chilled. Still she could not escape the heat from the imprint of his hand on her cheek. 

Hermione sat up and fumbled for her hair tie, lost somewhere in the cushions. There was a quiet snick, almost lost in her mumbled curses, and she twisted to see Tom Riddle strolling in, carrying a breakfast tea.

“Good morning,” he greeted softly. “I’m glad that I didn’t wake you.” 

“Uhh, no,” Hermione stuttered. For a foolish moment, she clutched the blanket. He was wearing cotton sweatpants and a long sleeved henley that clung to muscles she didn’t know existed.  _ Ok, ok, he’s good looking, that’s fine, _ her mind babbled, cheeks burning, easily hidden behind her curtain of wild curls. 

“Did you sleep well?” he asked as he arranged the tray on the desk. Looking to her for confirmation, he piled her stuff together and pressed the plunger on a pot of coffee. 

“I did, thanks. Did you...did you place me here?”

“Yes, I did. I apologize. I did try to wake you several times but you seemed, well, exhausted.” He was earnest, all polite shyness, and Hermione felt all of her dread flee. The wiser part of her, the part that had protested, pointed out that she was being courted and why would a man like this be interested in a mere student? Hermione banished it. She had no use for this sort of deprecation. Besides, it had been so long since someone had flirted with her. It felt...nice. 

And that’s all it would be, she told herself firmly. 

Hiding another blush as she turned around to fix her hair, she heard Tom tell her that the bathroom down the hall had an extra toothbrush. She stumbled down, still half awake, but her lips curved in a small smile. He was all courteousness, she thought. 

After a quick splash of water on her face and a scrub of teeth, she found him in the library, enjoying a cup of coffee. There was a selection of scones and muffins and she picked up one, slathering it with butter, as she doctored her coffee. He was reading the morning paper, where the headline screamed about an odd bout of sleeping disease. People fell asleep across the city and the police were unsure why. 

“So what’s on your agenda for today?” Tom inquired. Hermione put down her mug and swallowed the last bite of scone, dabbing at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t notice Tom’s gaze flicking toward her hands as she swiped along the bottom of her lips. 

“I’m so close to finishing my first draft. I want to make as much progress today as I can before work.” 

“When do you work?”

“Three pm.”

Tom folded his paper and picked up his cup. “In that case, would you like to join me for lunch? A good friend of mine, a historian, will be coming in town. You might enjoy meeting him. He has an interest in the Deathly Hallows history. And the rumor is that his library rivals mine.” 

Hermione’s brows rose at that and Tom chuckled. “Innuendo aside, Lucius has never turned down a request from an academic. You could confirm it with Dumbledore.” 

Hermione bit her lip. She weighed her options, wondering what Lucius might have that Tom didn’t. 

“I would need to get home to get dressed,” she protested, a weak excuse, and she saw the triumph flare in his eyes. 

“No worries, I’m sure I can arrange something. You just work on this thesis of yours. I’ll handle everything.” His words, sweet and mellifluous, wound around her and Hermione felt her knees tremble. He rose with a wink and a promise to leave her alone for the rest of the morning so she could work. 

True to his word, she was able to finish writing her first draft, ensuring copies were made of what she needed, and updating her works cited. There was a slight knock around noon and a maid entered, carrying two bags and a box. 

“There’s a couple of options in these bags,” she informed Hermione before asking if Hermione wanted a light snack. Shaking her head no and politely thanking the woman, Hermione turned back to her email from Dr. McGonagall, one of her readers and favorite professors. She taught history and was helping Hermione ensure that her understanding of historical events wasn’t so far afield as to be wild. 

_ Hermione,  _

_ Your theories seem sound. And it is a well known fact that many myths have their origin in historical events. I am pleased to be able to read your first draft next week. Let’s plan to meet at the Leaky Cauldron for dinner and discussion.  _

_ Also, if you do get a chance to visit the Malfoy libraries--do it. It has an extensive collection on the Peverell brothers. I believe they loaned it out once but unfortunately I did not seize the chance!  _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Minerva McGonagall, Ph.D  _

_ Deputy Chair, Dept of History  _

Hermione squealed in excitement. One of her three readers were on board! And if she could get her hands on those Peverell papers…celebration raced through her and she wiped nervous palms on her skirt. All she needed to do now was to convince Malfoy to let him her into her library. Wondering what Tom had thought appropriate, Hermione opened the bags. 

And gasped. 

Tom Riddle was nothing if thorough. There were several selections of lingerie and Hermione could not hold back the blush creeping up her neck. They were tasteful, conservative even and she wondered just how he managed to guess her size. The answer popped in her mind and her cheeks grew hot. 

He had left her choice between a flower printed dress with a sweetheart neckline or dark jeans with a peter pan collared shirt and a sweater. The brown boots fit with either and she couldn’t stop the sheer possessiveness she felt as she ran her hands over the buttery leather. She’d been eyeing boots like these for a month now but they were far beyond her price range, especially this brand. Her mother’s voice rose within in her, suggesting she should refuse such extravagance. 

Hermione thought of the books he offered. Of Malfoy’s library. 

She chose the dress and the sweater and the boots. It couldn’t hurt to dress up a little, she thought, as she hopped in the shower. She scrounged around for some makeup in her backpack and tried to make herself look as professional as possible. Let me see that library, she chanted. 

The door opened to the library after a quick knock. Tom strolled in clad in slim khaki trousers and a pale blue button up that brought out the blue in his eyes. She tried not to notice how the sandalwood scent drifted sinuously around her, sinking into her hair, her skin, her lips. She tried not to notice the way his eyes lit up when he noticed her. 

This was inappropriate, her mother’s voice scolded. 

“You look lovely, Hermione, if you don’t mind me saying,” Tom greeted. Hermione banished her mother from her mind. He stood before her and smiled down at her, close enough that she could feel the cool mint of his toothpaste along her cheeks. After he asked about her day, she launched into a blow by blow description of her research. It was nearly twenty minutes and she realized that he hadn’t stopped her. 

She blushed. 

“I’m sorry. I know I can get carried away.”

“No, don’t. It’s quite interesting. There’s very little that I find intellectually stimulating in academia and yet I find this absolutely riveting.”

“Really?” Hope rose, unwelcome, and she bit her lip. She wasn’t used to such interest from someone outside her field. His eyes crinkled as he smiled at her. 

“Sure. The thought that the Deathly Hallows are something real? If your research can help find them, it would be the discovery of the century.” His eyes raked over her, lingering along the sweetheart neckline of the dress and Hermione felt every beat of her heart against her ribcage, every pump of blood in her veins, every whisper of air against her skin.

She felt devoured as his lips curled upward. 

“You know, Hermione, I think that there isn’t much that I would deny you.”

“No?” It was ghostly whisper. The power, the desire, it stormed through her and she felt a lightheadedness unfurl within her, a sense of being adrift. Almost drunk. 

He picked up her hand and brushed his lips across the knuckles. 

“All you have to do is ask.” 

She knew in that moment that Malfoy’s library was hers. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It kind of reads as dubcon at the end so heads up if that's a squick.

“I can’t believe you are seducing a fucking university girl,” Bellatrix taunted. She made doe eyes at him, batting her eyelashes in an approximation of a lovesick school girl, all while humming “Tom and Hermione sitting in a tree.” She let out a cackle before knocking back his rather expensive scotch that she drank like water. 

“It was an interesting display,” Lucius drawled, not quite as cruelly as Bellatrix. “She is quite pretty though.”

“Her hair is hideous,” Bellatrix pouted, her own riot of curls a rain down her shoulders. She was the very model of a lack of restraint, from her sheer black crop top, revealing a lacy black bra, and torn jeans and stiletto boots. She had no qualms about needling Tom. He wondered why he had ever bothered sleeping with her. 

“It’s clear that none of you read the paper,” he said patiently, wondering why he suffered such fools. He thought back to Hermione’s lecture on her thesis and the evidence she had laid out so cleanly. It was apparent from her sudden stop that she was used to being sneered at for being a dedicated student. Tom had found it refreshing. He also saw a clear line to possessing the Deathly Hallows. She was quite useful. It was not a gambit he regretted making. 

And not bad on the eyes. And reeking of magic. It was intoxicating, how it rolled off her, untamed, like her hair. It was inexorable, relentless, spiking with her interest, lurching with her anxiety or depression. He understood for one moment how the rocks on the shores felt as waves pounded at them. Her magic was a force of nature. 

He would not allow anyone to shape it but him. And the thought that she was so receptive to a few pretty words and smiled did disappoint him, a bit, but it did make his job easier. The idea that she was out with her friends now, wearing clothes he had picked out for her, a brand that signaled that she was bought, pleased him greatly. 

“The sleeping sickness?” Lucius inquired. 

“Yes. Everyone who got it purchased something from her coffee shop, the Black Cat. That’s the only connection.”

“You don’t think…”Bellatrix trailed off as she uncorked a bottle of red wine. 

“No, of course not!” Tom snapped. “I can smell the magic on her. It surprised me that you barely noticed, Lucius.” Lucius had the good graces to look embarrassed. He had thought Hermione entirely normal until she had frowned at a pot of sunflowers, complaining they were dying. In a few moments they were blooming again and she hadn’t seen any connection to her, only remarking that it was probably because the sun was coming out. 

Tom and Lucius knew better and Tom couldn’t stop the smirk from gracing his face. , 

It had been another bout of accidental magic. Lucius had felt her power spike with the wish and Tom added it to his file on her. For one moment, the air reeked of the pop of lightning, the earthiness after the first splatters of rain, the heat of storm rolling across the hills. It seared his skin and he hungered for it. 

“She needs a teacher,” Lucius mused and Tom nodded curtly. 

“I plan to take that role. Whatever she needs.”

“And what if she becomes interested in Lucy here? Or me?” Bellatrix challenged, flashing a bright smile, teeth stained from the dark wine she was drinking. 

“Stay away from her Bella.” Steel wound through his voice and she snarled. “Hermione needs a gentle hand. I’m better at that than either of you.” His harsh words grated and he saw Lucius flinch. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes and turned back to her wine, swirling the liquid in the glass. 

“I’m done with talking about Hermione Granger. She’s my specific project. You all have your orders. Now we speak to something else and you can all enjoy my cellar or you can get out.”

It didn’t surprise him that they launched into reports. Tom hid his smirk. 

* * *

Tom Riddle was a heady, intoxicating thing. It was a slow seduction, Hermione realized, but it was one nonetheless. He was courteous, interested, the perfect listener as she read bits of her thesis to him. He offered advice generously and she found her writing improving as a result. 

She was reading aloud a chapter, laughing at their argument over comma placement, when his hand settled on her knee. She stilled and his smile froze. His eyes darkened with a question and she swallowed, loudly, her voice caught in her throat. He drew back and she shook her head.

His hand stayed. His hug that night lingered and she buried her face in her pillow, groaning at her school girl crush. It was entirely unprofessional. 

The next night, Tom took her to a gallery opening, clad in another dress provided by him. It was a drapey, dark green thing with an open back, far daring than anything she would have chosen. She felt glamorous as she mingled with local politicians and academicians and journalists. His hand never strayed far from her lower back, hot on bare skin. She was unsettled at how much she liked it there. The heat spread slowly up her spine until it rested, wanted, beneath her collarbone. She knew her cheeks were red. She could feel the eyes on her as she strode across the room, trying to hide the begging in her voice as she asked for a cold glass of champagne. 

It was then, as she resisted tossing back the drink in a whole swig, that she felt his eyes on her. Hermione met them and her knees trembled as a corner of his mouth curled. 

“Isn’t he charming?” a lithe woman with black curls in a messy topknot marveled. She held out a hand. “Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“Hermione Granger,” Hermione said quickly, sipping her champagne. The woman next to her, clad entirely in pink, sniffed and scuttled past them. Hermione exchanged a quick look with Bellatrix. 

“She doesn’t like me much,” Bellatrix whispered conspiratorially. Hermione raised a brow and Bellatrix giggled. “My art is too dark for her.”

“Oh you’re an artist?” Hermione kept her voice bland but polite.

“Sculpture. I work with metals. Madam Umbridge finds my work inappropriate.” Bellatrix took a sip of wine and leaned forward. “Too sexual.” She drew back with an airy laugh and Hermione tried to hide a frown. 

“How is it both sexual and dark?” she asked confusedly, wondering if the champagne was befuddling her senses. Bellatrix threw back her head and laughed, a throaty thing, that for some reason sent nails of panic shrieking down Hermione’s spine. She looked over at Tom, trying to hide the relief as he moved toward them, his face a thundercloud. 

“Bellatrix,” he greeted coolly and Bellatrix giggled. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” she purred. Hermione stared at them. Were they lovers, she thought. Or former ones anyways, she noted, as Bellatrix laid a hand on Tom’s arm. A part of her whispered about how little she knew of the man. 

“Not really. You know I enjoy Potter’s work,”came the glacial reply. Bellatrix giggled. 

“Yes, it’s always better to keep an eye on your enemy.”

“Enemy?” Hermione inquired. Tom gave her a patient look and jerked his arm away from the other woman. 

“James Potter runs a conservation company, quite extensive. He helped restore art on several pieces. This gallery is co-owned by him and the goal is to showcase local artists. He believes in preserving works now.” 

“Ah, so spying on those who sign with him,” Hermione nodded as if it all made sense. Truth be told, business practices mostly eluded her but she could understand why you would want to see who was doing what. After all, she had snuck more than one look at Theo Nott’s research carrel to see what he was working on. 

That wasn’t the same, she assured herself. It was pure academic interest. There was no blood in the water, unlike here. She wasn’t a shark but she could smell it, could watch the way Tom and Bellatrix moved, lithe and lean. Bellatrix stretched, all feral cat, and offered a toothy grin. 

“And does this art appeal to your tastes?” she murmured and Hermione caught the swallow in her throat. 

They were evocative, lurid colors, soft pastels, a splash of paint. Something abstract, new, something that she didn’t quite understand but they called to her,a tugging behind her navel, that she couldn’t help but follow. 

“Yes,” she replied hazily and she missed Tom’s ravenous gaze raking over her frame. She headed toward one painting, one that seemed oddly familiar--a circle, a triangle, a slash--something that called at the back of her memory. But the niggling call wouldn’t solidify itself into something and she let out a frustrated noise. 

“Yes, this type of art often makes me feel that way too,” a chipper voice said to her right. Hermione glanced over to see a man, not much taller than her, with a shock of black hair and bright green eyes. He gave her a cheeky grin, one that she found herself meeting. 

“It’s somewhat alluring but...confusing,” she admitted and he laughed. 

“Are you an art critic? Cuz that’s how they describe these things.”

Hermione blushed. “No. Are you the artist?”

“No, just a friend supporting them.” He held out a hand. “Harry Potter.”

She took it, offered her name, and spent the next few minutes chatting with him. He was delightful, sassy, his take on the art often complementing her own in a way that had her giggling. She glanced over her shoulder to see Tom talking with a group of men in suits and gave him a little wave. He had raised his chin, once, but she couldn’t help but be disturbed by the crispness in his eyes. 

“Is that your boyfriend?” Harry asked offhandedly and Hermione blushed again, almost distressed by how red her face must look by now. It had to be the wine, she thought. 

“Um, no. Just a friend.”

Harry turned, his green eyes flat and assessing, before grinning at her. “I think he’d like to be more than one. He can’t keep his eyes off of you.”

“Well you certainly noticed that more than I did,” she replied flippantly, giggling a little into her glass. Her stomach clenched and she could feel heat beginning a sinuous course up her spine. Had he really been watching her the whole time? 

“I’m a detective. I get paid to observe,” was Harry’s quiet answer. It stilled the desire unfurling within her and she sucked on her bottom lip. Harry gave her a crooked smile. 

“If he makes you uncomfortable--and honestly, these kinds of looks don’t always bode well--just give me a call.”

Hermione spluttered, her words a jumble, tripping over one another as they fled her mouth. Harry gave a slight shake and pressed a card in her hand. 

“If you’re ever nervous at any time, give me a ring.”

“What’s this then, young Potter?” Riddle greeted, sidling up next to Hermione, and slipping his arm around her waist. Hermione choked, swallowed, hand lifting ot her mouth to hide the protests that threatened to leak out. For one moment, she felt how a piece of meat feels, growled over by two dogs, and her anger threatened to make itself known explosively. Instead, she bit the inside of her cheek, savoring the sparks of pain to keep her cool. 

“Good night Hermione,” Harry said thinly with barely a nod to Riddle before leaving. Hermione’s jaw dropped at the clear line of animosity between them. Tom turned toward her and she caught the wondering gleam in his eye. 

“Want to get out of here?” 

“I don’t know. Are you planning on insulting any more of my friends?”

“I didn’t realize you and Potter were friends.” 

Hermione frowned. “No but we could be.” 

Tom quirked a brow. “Yes, well I won’t stop you. However, I have heard that he is dating someone on the football team.” 

“Not every friendship with a man has to be about sex,” Hermione shot back as she lead Tom out of the gallery. Her irritation burned at his presumption and her thumb hovered over the Uber app on her phone. 

“Hermione.” It was a dark velvety calling of her name, soft and hoarse, and she turned to face him. The cool spring air nipped at her exposed neck, her open arms, her bare back, pebbling along her arms. He ran his tongue over his lip and his want was a tangible thing, brushed breath and pressure, and she shivered. 

“Come home with me.” There. It was naked, in the open, and she huffed, looking away from him, at the dim stars, swallowed by the city’s lights. 

“Why?” The question was nearly lost in the shriek of laughter as a group tumbled out of a pub, slurring words battling beeping cars for dominance. 

“Because I want you to.” He stepped closer to her, his thumb tracing a line down her arm. “Because I want you to want to.” His breath skated along her cheek. “It doesn’t have to be more than what you want it to be.” 

And, to her startled surprise, his lips claimed her, his hand digging into the flesh of her arm, and she was lost in the overriding smell of sandalwood and mint. 

“Alright,” she agreed. She capitulated. She let him lead her to the car. She let his hand rest on her knee and her body curled tighter than a spring ready to let loose. Her heart was running a marathon that didn’t end as he took her hand and led her into his dark house. 

His hands mapped her frame. His mouth learned every constellation of freckles along her nose and chin. His tongue savored the dip in her collarbone and she shivered, a small cry escaping. The dress was nothing more than fabric lost on the floor and she was lost in his cavernous bed. The only thing that she was aware of in the dim light were his lips, his hands, his sweat slicked body gliding against hers, the feather soft sheets cupping her body, as she hid her pants into his shoulder. His want overtook hers and teeth nipped, nails scoured, and she whined. 

His eyes flashed triumphantly as she sank pliant and sated into the bed. He settled around her, fingers skimming trembling flesh. 

For a moment, Hermione knew how a lion felt as it nibbled on its feast. 

The problem was, her sleepy mind warned, she wasn’t the lion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, Hermione's logical mind is resisting something!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione takes her first steps into a wider world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm what is a timely update? 
> 
> ::Sweats nervously::

Dumbledore tapped one gloved finger on her paper. His eyes twinkled over his small frames and Hermione’s grip tightened on her pen. She was waiting for his review of her thesis and sat patiently in his office as he skimmed the last few pages. Her eyes strayed to a glass case on his bookshelf in which sat a gnarled twig. It often captured her attention while she was in his office and she found her glance frequently wandering toward its dark twisted shape. Even now as she plucked at her frayed scarf ends, she found herself fascinated by it. 

“This is a very well argued thesis, Hermione, and a pleasure to read,” he began and a tremble racked her frame. This was not the praise she was looking for and she sucked in her bottom lip to hide her disappointment. She could hear the “but” all too clearly. 

“But you disagree,” she said in a small voice, chin tucking down, shoulders dropping up as if she could feel the shame dripping out of her very pores. Dumbledore chuckled. 

“Don’t get your hopes dashed. It’s still a wonderfully argued paper. But I just wonder--what are you trying to accomplish with this? What does knowing that the Deathly Hallows are real do for scholarship and the world?” 

Hermione sat back, hands going still. Grey sunlight filtered in through grimy windows, watery light on Dumbledore’s cramped office, nearly lost in the yellow glare of the fluorescent above. It overflowed with books, shelves sagging under their weight. They stood in tottering piles on every surface, cluttering the floor in neat stacks, leaving a clear path only to Dumbledore’s seat. 

“I didn’t realize that publication was the goal of a master’s thesis,” she replied. Dumbledore clucked his tongue. 

“You’re dodging the question.”

“You’re asking a very odd question. The purpose of a thesis is to present a well researched and well argued, cohesive body of work that demonstrates a thorough understanding of research methodologies, argument rhetoric, and originality in thought. It isn’t necessary to think about publication or its impact on the academy.” 

She was breathing hard after her outburst but inwardly she was cringing. She wasn’t known for talking back; she would say she was passionate about her work but tended to be demure and deferential to authority.

Except for that one time. Hermione banished the prickling voice. 

“Do you expect me to believe that you will just settle for a masters? That you don’t plan to parlay this into a doctoral program?” The question sat heavy in the room and Hermione swallowed. Truth was, she hadn’t dared to dream of a doctoral program. She hadn’t even applied, focusing her efforts on applying to teach at local secondary schools. Her parents’ constant prodding to find a job and to turn her academic pursuits into something that they can brag about at cocktail parties forced her to consider other avenues for the time being. Alright, they would merely intimate that, she admitted. The actual words were “turn her academic pursuits into something profitable” but she heard the other as well.

“I. . .I am unsure of my plans at this time.”

Dumbledore regarded her, folding his hands over his lap. She stared at his gloved hands, and wondered if he had problems with the heat in the office. Spring in the Highlands was always chilly and she had bundled up before she had left the coffee shop. Shifting her gaze from him to the odd stick again. 

The phone rang and Dumbledore apologized as he picked it up. Hermione rubbed her hands together as they tingled, almost as if they had fallen asleep. She longed to stand up and study the stick, her face going slack as she swore she saw it twitch. 

“Professor Dumbledore-” she began as he stood. 

“Excuse me for a moment, Hermione, there is an emergency at the department office. I’ll be right back.” He brushed past her and Hermione bit her lip. Now would be the time…she argued with herself. It was a violation of trust. It was inappropriate. Alright, but why was an ordinary twig in a glass box? Her curiosity would not be sated. Gritting her teeth, Hermione picked her away among the books to stand before the bookshelf. 

Her breath caught in her throat. It looked just as the death stick had been described in the texts she knew. Dark and slim, with circular bumps every few centimeters. She lifted the glass and touched it. The twig jumped into her hand and she gasped. 

Later, Hermione could never describe what happened. Warmth flooded her core and her skin crackled. Her hair lifted in the air and a breeze fluttered through the room, ruffling the pages of the books around her. Power, electric and humming, settled along her flesh and she knew that whatever she commanded would come true. 

“Oh dear,” came a gravelly, disappointed voice from the doorway. Hermione snapped toward Dumbledore, his hands folded in front of him, dismay in the wrinkling of his forehead. 

“Professor?” Hermione asked hesitantly, swinging the stick down. All of the books jumped and piled themselves up neatly, in alphabetical order. She shrieked and dropped the twig. Dumbledore stepped into the room and shut the door. 

“I wasn’t ready to have this conversation with you, but it seems that I must.” 

Hermione frowned. It evoked similar feelings to when her mother had approached her to talk about boys. Serious, overwhelming, fraught with meaning she didn’t quite grasp. Frightening for her and apprehensive for Hermione. Dumbledore even had the same grave expression. 

“There was a reason why I didn’t want you to research the Deathly Hallows.”

“Because it contributes nothing to the profession?” Hermione sneered. 

Dumbledore shook his shaggy head. “No, Hermione. Because they are real. Sometimes, our legends give us only a peek at the truth. Sometimes they are truer than we hope.” 

“Is this where you tell me that vampires are real?” 

“Vampires are real but not how you think. But it’s because magic is real.”

Hermione glowered. “Magic isn’t real.” 

Dumbledore smiled and waved his hand around to indicate the books, and her hair, still flying around her face. 

“Then how do you explain that?” 

She bit her lip. She couldn’t at the time, not in this moment. There was no rational explanation. Except for perhaps a build up of static electricity? But that didn’t explain the books moving on their own. They leapt up and organized themselves. It didn’t make any sense. 

“It’s just fiction,” she whispered, more to reassure herself. Dumbledore folded himself into his chair. 

“But what is the harm in it being real?” 

“I could...I could be bitten by a vampire?” she joked. Dumbledore offered a weak smile and gestured for her to sit. Hermione picked up the death stick and held it out to him as she walked past the neatly ordered columns. He gingerly took it and placed it on his desk. She smoothed down her hair and licked her dry lips. Her heart hammered in her chest and her stomach clenched. 

“Magic does exist. Some people have a natural affinity for it. You do, it seems. Most of those with the talent are found early and trained,” he paused to frown. “I’m not sure why you weren’t found at a young age. But sometimes it happens.”

“What do you mean trained?” she demanded. 

Dumbledore sniffed and crossed one leg over the other. “Typically we find those with magic during their adolescence. Those wild emotions make it easier for someone to accidentally blow something up or perform an inexplicable thing. Tell me, did anything ever happen to you like that?”

Hermione thought about her childhood. About how whatever she desired could be easily found. How a girl who teased her mysteriously tripped over nothing and tumbled down a flight of stairs, breaking her arm. How her room would grow warm when she wished it. How...how her moods affected her baking? No, no, it can’t be, she thought wildly, her heart galloping now, sweaty hands fisting in her sweater. 

She saw Dumbledore give her a knowing look. “I can introduce you to other practitioners.”

Hermione gave a wild laugh. “This sounds like an introduction to a Wiccan coven.”

“Some Wiccans do have a touch of magic but most are nature worshippers.”

“This is unreal. This can’t be happening. I have to go.” Hermione jumped up and grabbed her bag. She heard Dumbledore protesting as she ripped open the door and ran down the hall, feet clattering down the stairs. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. The cool air slammed into her, choking her, as she skidded around the corner, racing toward her car. This wasn’t real, this wasn’t real, it’s a dream, she chanted to herself as she threw herself inside the vehicle. 

She gripped the steering wheel, unsure of where to go. Home was lonely. Luna was out and she would jump at the chance to explore magic. The coffee shop...she shuddered. What if she were affecting people with her baking? No, no it was a lie. She needed to research, she told herself, forcing herself to take calming breaths. A memory thrust forward of old magic tomes at Tom’s townhouse. She had mocked him for it and he had told her that they often sold well for eclectic collectors, his tone as amused as hers. 

But she hadn’t been there since that night a week ago. She had woken up to find him asleep next to her. His curls were wild and unkempt and impossibly soft. He had murmured as she touched them and curled toward her. Her thighs ached and there were bruises on her hips and neck and breasts. She had left. 

She hadn’t returned his texts or calls. 

Hermione turned the key in the ignition. Best to get two painful things out of the way at once, she thought, and nosed her car into traffic. She knew he wouldn’t be there, not this early in the afternoon. She wasn’t sure why she had avoided him. He was older, sure. He was attractive, yes. He was kind but...there was a sense of possessiveness. 

If she let this continue, she would belong to him, some part whispered. She didn’t know if she wanted that. A darker part of her thrilled in the way his hands had moved over her--their firmness, their steadiness, his clear need, his desire nearly turning his dark eyes maroon. Another part was frightened of the want. Of how he had ordered Harry away. 

And another part wanted him inside of her again. He wasn’t a bad lover, that’s for sure, she commented ruefully as she turned down his street. She hoped he hadn’t rescinded the invitation to his house. But as the butler opened the door and offered her tea, she smiled tremulously. 

There was hope for both. 

Maybe he was as confused as she was, she thought, swallowing hard. She could see how she might come off as cruel. Perhaps his ardor had cooled. Perhaps he still wanted to fuck her until she couldn’t walk (she had moaned when he had whispered that, and she still grew red at the thought). Wasn’t it...wrong to want to be dominated? 

Shaking her head as if to clear her mind, Hermione jogged toward the part of the library with the occult books. She ran her hands over the spine, stopping at one called Simple Spells. Flipping it open, she found an easy spell for lifting things. Putting it down on Tom’s desk, she pulled a pen out of his organizer. 

“Wingardium leviosa,” she pronounced, feeling silly. 

Nothing happened. 

Hermione slumped into Tom’s chair. She wasn’t sure what was more disappointing--that it did happen or that it didn’t. 

“It’s levi-oh-sah not levi-oh-sar,” came a cool voice from behind her. Hermione jumped up to see Tom leaning against a column.

“Oh, god, Tom,” she stuttered. He gave her a welcoming smile. 

“Try it again,” he encouraged and she laughed dryly. 

“You aren’t serious.” But his features were drawn and tight and there was not a trace of humor on his severe features. She remembered how she almost felt like prey in his arms. The feeling overwhelmed her now as his gaze became flat. 

“Try it again.” 

Licking her lips and nodding, Hermione looked at the pen. She spoke the words, giving them the proper pronunciation as Tom had instructed. Her chest tightened and her hair lifted from her shoulders even as the pen began to rise in the air. 

“Fuck,” she whispered backing up and into the solid shape that was Tom. He grabbed her shoulders, turning her sharply, his lips rough and hard against hers. His fingers threaded in her hair, tugging hard. 

“Ouch,” she protested, pulling back. Tom smiled lazily at her. 

“Why have you been ignoring me?” 

“I….I….” but there was no answer. She was nervous, she was scared, she wanted and didn’t want him. She didn’t know how to say it, without giving offense. 

His eyes drew dark and he frowned. “Did you...did you not want us to…” he trailed off and looked embarrassed, his perfectly pale skin growing pink. Hermione shook her head. 

“I don’t know what I want. But, no, I wanted...that.” It felt awkward and stilted. His arms loosened around her and she stepped back. She looked up at Tom to see his gaze past hers, eyes widening. She twisted to see more items from the desk rising. 

“How is this happening?” she murmured and Tom chuckled in her ear. 

“Finite incantatem,” he said clearly and the items all dropped to the floor. The pen rolled off the desk. Hermione inhaled sharply. 

“I can show you what you want, answer all your questions, give you all that you need,” he promised. She shivered in his arms and let him rest his chin on her head. At that moment, she needed a hot cup of tea and a dose of reality. 

“You have this power too,” she said quietly and he nodded. 

“Yes but unlike you, apparently, I was found at eleven and introduced into this world. I’m not sure how you escaped his notice.”

“Whose notice?” Hermione demanded. Tom frowned and she hated how beautiful he looked even as concern etched lines around his lips. 

“Dumbledore,” he said slowly. “Surely he’s the one who introduced you to this today? He finds all of those with magical ability to train them.” But at Hermione’s startled cry, he hugged her tighter. She didn’t see his smug smile. 

“I will tell you everything, darling, I promise,” he said, dropping a kiss on her forehead. Hermione did not draw away. She leaned into him. 

“I trust you,” she told his shoulders. And as she allowed him to place comforting kisses along her jaw, she believed it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr at HausCrashBurn!


End file.
